


The Chronicles of Skyhold: A Collection of Short Tales

by ScholaroftheArchive



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dragon Age: Inquisition Spoilers, Short Tales
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-08-24 07:03:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8362225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScholaroftheArchive/pseuds/ScholaroftheArchive
Summary: A collection of random one-shots based on Alexandre Julien Trevelyan, written in different character perspectives from Dragon Age: Inquisition.





	

**Author's Note:**

> (Author Note: This snippet occurs between Chapter 2 and Chapter 3 of A Twist of Fate.)

Despite being the only acceptable place for unruly soldiers to engage in all manner of rambunctious behaviour, the tavern was eerily quiet. The full moon was hanging high in the night sky, prime light for storytelling, but not even the few bards, recruited by the Nightingale to entertain the grieving faithful, dared to break the hush, almost revered silence that had descended upon the tavern. And if it wasn't for those few desperate souls, looking for comfort at the bottom of a bottle, the tavern would be entirely empty too -- except for Varric.

Since his impromptu arrival in Haven, Varric spent all of his evenings here in the local tavern; sometimes the centre of attention, telling tales of Hawke or, given their iconic location, the legendary Hero of Ferelden. Other evenings, he sat as far away from the main crowd as possible, simply watching the drinking, laughing and merrymaking with a sad, wistful smile. The people of Haven desperately needed to be distracted, to be reminded that the world wasn't going bat-shit crazy, and that there were selfless individuals somewhere out there to inspire hope in others and rally a nation together. But to Varric, not even the friendly atmosphere or the watered down swill the barmaid, Flissa fervently insisted was a special brew of mulled mead could replace the irresistible allure of the Hanged Man. 

And it definitely couldn't hide the glaringly empty chairs gathered around Varric's table. Maybe it was a deep longing for home that prompted him to sit at a table with eight chairs; if by divine intervention, the dear friends he'd left behind in Kirkwall would be drawn here to him. While he could -- and had on more than one occasion -- invited Curly and Chuckles for a round of drinks and a game of Wicked Grace, something had brought him alone into the tavern tonight. 

So with Bianca propped on the cushioned chair next to him, Varric drank.

He'd been suspicious seeing them together. The Seeker and him. As a renowned storyteller from the Free Marshes, it was absolutely necessary for Varric to notice these types of things. A stolen glance, a suppressed smile, or even a disguised laugh; all those seemingly insignificant elements that told a much larger, far more complex story. 

And he'd be damned, but he sensed a story between the Seeker and her so-called 'prisoner'. 

There was a strange kinship between them, one that was evident in the easy manner that they moved across the snowy terrain of the Frostbacks together. It was something that could not -- no, should not have been there, unless they had some prior history before the disaster at the Conclave. 

Scratching his chin, Varric waved Flissa over, ordering another drink. 

The thought of the Seeker having a history with anyone was… shocking, to say the least. Not even in Varric's wildest dreams could he devise of a plot twist like this for one of his romance stories. Well, maybe he could, but that was definitely beside the point.

But it was undeniable, for those inkling suspicions had only grown with the Seeker's odd behaviour the night before. 

Varric sighed. _Mulled mead, my ass,_ he thought, as Flissa quickly set a fresh mug of murky brown liquid in front of him and dashed away. 

What the Seeker claimed was simply a 'precaution' should the unthinkable happen, both he and the Nightingale had seen it for what it truly was: an unwavering, yet an inexplicable concern for the man lying unconscious on a worn cot. 

After the bloody carnage at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, one that had so nearly killed the so-called 'Herald of Andraste', the Seeker had spent the entire first day at his bedside. When not seated beside his still form, she had spent it pacing back and forth before the foot of his bed. And with each glance at the man, the concern on her face had simply grown. 

 _Why had it grown?_ The Seeker rarely showed any sort of emotion besides anger. Well, at least Varric had never seen the Seeker's face not contorted in a deep scowl.

If the circumstance was normal, he would have ventured to pry the story from her himself, but an odd suspicion told him this simply wasn't. That the way the Seeker's eyes swept over the man's features intimately, a private search for something only she could name, made him feel she deserved a degree of respect and privacy from the nosy, loudmouth storyteller in him. So, with a great deal of restraint, Varric kept his mouth shut tight. He'd prefer to keep his head where it was. 

But apparently, he had not been the only one to notice the curious display of emotions from the Seeker. Varric had been sitting there in the Herald's hut, a leather-bound book balanced in one hand, when the Nightingale slipped silently into the hut and tried, unsuccessfully, to coax the tale out of the Seeker. 

He had to give it to the Nightingale; she was good, too good, at what she did. But the Seeker had remained unswayed by all of the Nightingale's careful line of questioning. 

Personally, Varric would not have been as forthcoming. But then again, he could sense a story between the powerful two women too; the shared looks of relief that passed between them that day at the forward camp had not escaped his notice either. 

Varric took a sip of his drink. A story for another time, no doubt. 

Yet at the Nightingale's attempt, a passing mention of the Seeker's obvious concern was uttered. And then, and perhaps only then, had the Seeker realized the transparency in which her emotions played on her face. It was, with a backward glance at the unconscious man, what finally prompted her to leave the small hut and flee to this very tavern. 

While Varric respected her enough to withhold questioning her, he hadn't been able to prevent himself from following her. 

He'd only seen her here once before, recruiting some of the locals for whatever she and the Nightingale were planning. For no doubt, they were indeed planning something after this catastrophe.  

Nursing a single glass of red wine the entire evening, the Seeker had sat alone -- not that anyone would have dared to disturb her. Perhaps it was the wine itself that had induced the usually stoic Seeker to let the emotions to danced freely across her face; one slender finger absently tracing the curve of the glass; her eyes seemingly staring into the empty space across from her as deep thoughts plagued her in between small sips of wine.

Rather sullen-looking too, Varric reflected, swirling the murky liquid around in his own mug.

He had secretly observed her. His suspicion only growing, until she finally sipped the last drops of red wine and left. It was like she's never been there at all. In fact, if it was not for her single, empty wineglass abandoned where she had been sitting, Varric would have thought she was a bizarre fragment conjured up by his alcohol-addled mind.

Only the Seeker hadn't returned to her unorthodox vigil the next day. Instead, Varric had spotted her in the training yard this afternoon, viciously hacking away at Haven's reserves of training dummies.

And it was only now, tonight, in the quiet tavern, alone with his thoughts, did he piece together the reason for the Seeker's off behaviour. 

Oh boy, did he ever. 

Just how many nights had he spent quietly, with Isabela not so quietly, watching the subtle glances of longing pass between Hawke and Fenris at the Hanged Man? Too many, by his count; Wasted evenings, by Isabela's. 

And while the Seeker and Herald were both definitely better at hiding it than Broody or Hawke had ever been, there was no mistaking the look was filled with the same painful yearning to make amends.  

Amends for what, though, Varric pondered. He took a sip of his lukewarm mead. Broody's situation with Hawke had been so painfully obvious to their small group in Kirkwall that even Daisy had picked up the tension between Hawke and Broody. But the Herald? He was an utter enigma; a figure entirely difficult to read. Anyone in their right mind would have fled at the prospect of fighting a horde of demons, but the Herald...

Varric glanced at the crossbow next to him. 

Then again, maybe the only reason why he noticed those familiar looks between the Seeker and the Herald was because of Hawke and Fenris, and his own experience with unrequited and forbidden love. 

And the all-seeing Seeker, for all her watchfulness, was completely and utterly oblivious to the intensity in which the Herald's gaze had lingered on her. 

Swinging back the rest of his drink, Varric pulled his leather bound journal towards him and flipped open to a blank page. 

For now, he would wait and leave them to figure it out on their own. 

Oh, but he'd be waiting, waiting to see exactly how their relationship blossomed. And dipping his quill into a small ink bottle, Varric began to write. 

_Pale winter lights streamed into the dark cell..._


End file.
